Not so Sweet
by A-Truth
Summary: After Clay's death, Lucy moves on. Did he? Lucy/Clay, eventual Lucy/Desmond
1. Chapter 1

Clay Kaczmarek hated having to stay. He had done everything he thought possible to get out. Making a run for it was, of course, futile. Too many guards, too many of them had tazers. Faking a heart attack to go to a hospital? They didn't even send a doctor to his room. (At least he had gotten an hour off to rest, though.) The air vents were much too small to crawl through, and had grates blocking anything bigger than dust from passing through. Once, he had managed to block the door from latching properly. Once. It didn't end well for him. Clay had smuggled Lucy's pen into his room, one night. He had long scince broken the security camera in his room, but he threw a sheet over it as a precaution. He waved the pen in front of the control pad by the door. The small screen just said, "UNAUTHORIZED" and blinked a red light at him.

Clay had done everything short of suicide to get out.

And then, he tried that. Of course he left a piece of himself behind- to keep his word to Juno. He hadn't wanted to die, then. It was just the only way out. Clay wasn't a particularily religious man, and suspected no shining gate of white would greet him, though he still hoped it would. While laying there, finished writing but too weak to cut again and end it, he thought he saw a lady in white run to him. Everything was blurry, and constantly flickered away. Clay could almost hear her say something, and thought she might have cradled his head and tried to comfort him. She might have been blonde... and she might have been an angel. He was too far gone by then, though. After a few seconds, everything went dark.

He found himself shielding his eyes from a light with his hand, and blinking a few times until it subsided. The arm in front of his face wasn't bleeding, though it had scars. Was he in a hospital..? Had they saved him?

No... This wasn't a hospital. A quick survey of his surroundings found himself laying on the floor of Absergo, in the same place as before. He propped himself up on his elbows to look around. There was blood everywhere, but it had darkened and thickened substantially. Daylight filled the area though the massive windows on the other side of the Animus. And... someone was next to him. Standing a few steps away, her back to him. Her hair, usually in a tight bun, was loose and unbrushed. Every few moments she would take a sharp breath, and though Clay couldn't see her face he knew she was trying to fight back sobs. She was a wreck.

But he was alright. Why wasn't she? In fact, he felt better than he had in months. The only voice he heard in his head was his own, and he was certain of the year. He didn't know a word of Italian, and didn't have a personal recollection of the French Revolution. Clay found himself blissfully ignorant. He let himself smile at that thought. This must've been some kind of, 'mental reset'. With a fresh mind, he could last another year- or maybe even longer. Finding unexpected strength in his usually exhausted body, he was able to stand up and step over to Lucy. He thought he could forgive her, now. Not the previous, 'I have no choice' forgival he'd given her before. This time, their kisses wouldn't taste bitter and dutiful. With strength and confidence anew, he could reconcile with Lucy. Everything would be okay now, and he could believe her when she told him he wasn't going to die. He reached a scarred hand out to her and comfortingly rested it on her shoulder. She didn't turn, but that was okay.

"I'm alright, Luce."

She didn't answer, but that was okay too. Something had her clearly upset, and he didn't need to make it about him. Though he didn't envy whoever they had to clean up after him. Christ, it was much more grizzly than even_ he_ had expected. It was a miracle he was still around, really. All that blood... Lucy took a long, drawn out sigh, and straightened her posture.

And walked away. Clay was a little offended she hadn't aknowledged him, but suspected she was mad at him for scaring her with all... _this_. She probably thought he was dead. She would probably have nightmares about this room, for months to come. At least he could empathize about that.

"That's fine, we can talk later."

It was a pointless comment, though. The door had closed behind her before he had finished the sentance. It was strange to leave him loose like this, though. He was always locked up in his room. Not that he could really do anything in here. He'd already tried smashing the windows. It hadn't worked, but the look on Vidic's face when Clay threw his chair at it was priceless. The chair was completely beyond recognition by the time they'd gotten him subdued.

Clay looked uneasily around the room. What was he supposed to do, now? There was a bucket and sponge nearby, did these Templar bastards really expect _him_ to clean up? If so, they were crazier than he was. He had made it his daily mission to make things difficult for them, and an attempt on his life hadn't made it any different. Still, it was strange that he was so healed. It can't have been more than a day ago he had opened his veins to all this. He wasn't tired, but maybe he'd take a nap anyway. He turned to go to his room, when something caught his eye.

Right where he was laying earlier... was _himself?_


	2. Chapter 2

Clay was, to understate, surprised. The last thing he would expect to see there would be himself. But that's what he saw. His own body lay there, partially supported against the wall. His arms were covered in shallow gashes, enough to draw blood but not enough to lose movement in his arms. The paleness of his face made the blood seem even more red, despite having dried into a dull brownish colour. His eyes were closed and sunken, and had purple underscores. Clay knelt beside his own, still body. His hair was a mess and his clothing had seen better days. And, he thought, he could do with a shave.

Was he dreaming? No... Something inside him knew exactly what was happening, but the rest of him didn't want to accept it.

It was more than an attempted suicide.

He sighed and looked at the pathetic man in front of him. He was in terrible shape. How long had he been like this? How long had Lucy looked into those dull eyes and told them he would be alright? Everything about him cried for help. How had he lived like this?

Clay stood again, not looking away from his body. He wondered if Lucy was the one who had found him like this. Yesterday he wanted it to be her, to have made her see what she did to him. Sure, it was satisfying to see that she was ridden with guilt. But something else in him felt awful for making her see all of this. Hearing about it second-hand would have been enough...

He turned away from the body. He didn't want the only one to mourn him to be his own ghost.

Ghost. He supposed he was just another Casper now. What could he be bound to? Wasn't that the rule, that spirits with unfinished business lingered around some object or place? He didn't have many possessions anymore. At least not in this place. If he was bound to something back at his apartment, surely that's where he would be. The thought of being bound to this place was too much. It must be an object.

As for 'unfinished business', he had no idea. The AI would take care of his promise to Juno. Unless he had to stay to see that through, but at least it would only be a few more months. Just until he was done helping Desmond with... With whatever he needed to help Desmond with.

Clay sighed and turned to his room, only to find the door latched. It looked like he would be staying out here for a while.

It wasn't much longer before the door slid open on smooth hydrolics and Lucy reentered. Her eyes were a little red still, but her hair was pulled back again and her clothing was free of blood. Two men followed behind her, dressed in blue coveralls and matching hats. The nametags on their chests introduced them in friendly red cursive as Morgan and David. Lucy pointed to Clay's body.

"Just right there. Thanks, guys." She gave his corpse a forlorn look, and bit her shaking lip. Seeing him like this must have been hard on her, as she quickly turned away again and became very interested in her clipboard. The two men just gave her a consoling smile and nod, and moved over to his body. The younger of the two, David, hooked his arms under Clay's; while the other, Morgan, picked up his feet. They nodded at one another and lifted him up, and together carried his body away. Helpless, Clay watched himself be carried in front of Lucy, who gagged a little at the sight. He wished he could console her, let her know he was alright. Let her know he was... well, here for her.

He tried again to comfort her, but she didn't react to his hand on her shoulder. She just rubbed at her eyes and thanked the men again, before shutting the door after them. Just a pool of blood remained where his body once was.

Clay glanced down to her clipboard, curious what she was staring at so intently. They were just blank pages, with a few random pen marks she made to make it look like she was writing. He hated himself for ever hoping she would be the one to find him.

After a moment she opened the door to his room, and he followed her inside. The messages strewn accross the wall over his bed made her gag again, but he was unphased by them. Though he was dissapointed in himself over how messy they were. He hoped, whoever this 'Desmond' was, he would be able to read them alright. At least they were all spelled right. Lucy scanned the room, her eyes passing right over Clay without seeing him. She walked around the rooms, her eyes getting redder with every symbol and message. After thuroughly surveying the rooms, she left him again.

At least she had left the door to his room open. Clay lay on his bed, wondering if he could sleep anymore. He thought he might try. 


	3. Chapter 3

Clay woke a few hours later. Though, to his delight, it wasn't because Vidic or Lucy had come to get him. He could lay here, at least for a while longer until they came. Finally, a peaceful sleep. He smiled to himself and shifted to get comfortable.

Moments later, his door opened. His smile flipped to a scowl and he burried his face in the pillow. He heard Lucy's muffled voice, but couldn't make out what she was saying. Her hoarse tone made him tilt the pillow to hear.

"Vidic, how could I have known? Don't do this!"

Clay lifted his face a little to see what was happening. They were both standing beside his bed, and Vidic was angrier than Clay had ever seen. It made him smirk behind the pillow. Whatever it was, must have been in favour of the Assassins. And it must have been big.

"I expect it to be done by tomorrow, Miss Stillman. And have this camera off of your looped footage."

She looked away, embarrassed at being caught. Clay knew she had looped the footage of his room, but never told her he knew. If he knew he was being watched, he might be less likely to try anything. Though she cared about him and wanted to give him, if nothing else, the dignity of his own privacy, she didn't want him to do anything reckless either. She needed him to stay. Vidic, in his usual brisk pace, fumed out of the room. Lucy took a few heavy breaths, clearly upset.

"What spat in his coffee?" Clay asked after a moment. He gave her a sideways smile.

"I've got a lot of work ahead of me." She said it so quietly, Clay only barely heard her.

"I'm probably not allowed to help, should I bother offering?" Clay sat up on his bed, and stretched out his arms. He couldn't remember ever feeling so well rested. And he knew his name, which is always a good thing to wake up to. Lucy just shook her head and took a deep breath, straightening herself and regaining her composure. She turned sharply and left the room. Clay stood and followed her.

What he saw nearly made him fall over. The entire room was covered in symbols and words, all written in dried blood. Three other people were in the room, all in suits and looking very official. They had notepads and were discussing a barcode on the ground when Lucy joined them.

"Do you have all you need? We want to get this place cleaned by tomorrow."

Clay looked around the room in a fluster. What had happened in here? There was blood everywhere. He startled when he realized he was standing in it, and stumbled backwards to get out. Did all this happen in his sleep? Whose blood was it? How was Lucy so calm?

The officials nodded and closed their notebooks. They thanked her for her time, and left the two alone.

"Lucy, what happened? Did someone get killed in here? Christ, how did I sleep through this?" Clay could barely keep himself from shaking. This was the last thing he was expecting to find out here. But Lucy didn't answer, instead she walked over to a bucket on the ground, plucked the sponge from inside, and set to work mopping it off the walls. "That bastard Vidic is making you clean all this up? _By tomorrow_?" He looked out the window, and guessed it was around eight in the evening. She would never finish this in time, even if she worked all night. Instead of answer him or even aknowledge him, she just kept working away at the symbol. He touched her shoulder and crouched down beside her. "Luce, you'll never get all this done. Not with that." He gestured to the sponge in her hand, now a sickening red version of what it once was. Still, she ignored him. "Fine, just pretend I'm not here." He stood again, frustrated with her stubbornness. He tried to remember if they were fighting. It was hard enough to keep track without the bleed effect mixing up days, and lifetimes. As he turned to leave her, a pool of blood caught his attention. Something about it...

Suddenly it all came rushing back to mind. He was dead. This blood was his, and he was the one who made the symbols. And Lucy... Lucy had to clean it all up as punishment. She had to take the blame, because she'd looped the video and he could work without interruption. Vidic must've thought she'd known about his plan.

If only he could help her. How had he forgotten this was all him? He looked back to the pool at his feet. This is where his body was... He grimaced and sat down on the edge of the Animus, and watched Lucy work at his glyphs.

He wasn't sorry about making them. That was always his intention. For weeks he'd planned all this, down to every minute detail. Ensured every symbol had a place and every place had a symbol. He was anything but reckless about this. Despite it all, he wanted to apologize to her. Surely it would have been alright with one less... No... No, it had to be this way. Not that an apology would do any good, anyway. She couldn't hear him. Maybe it was best that she couldn't, he had no idea what to say to her.

She worked at the symbols for at least an hour before the door slid open and another woman entered. She had a mop in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Her nametag introduced her as Michelle. She walked right past Clay, and handed the glass to Lucy, who drank it all before coming up for air.

"Thanks 'Chelle." Lucy was a little out of breath from the scrubbing, and the thanks was clearly genuine. Clay wondered how they knew one another. Co-workers, he had to assume.

"I couldn't just leave you alone like this. I can't believe Vidic is making you do this all by yourself! I mean, it's not like he was a stranger to you." Michelle was keeping her voice down, but the harshness in it couldn't be mistaken. Lucy wiped her forehead and stretched her back out.

"I'd love to chat, but I really do need to get this done." Lucy took the mop from Michelle, who handed it to her, coupled with a concerned expression. "Thanks again for the drink. And the mop." With that, she resumed her work. Michelle seemed to have more to say, but she must have known Lucy well enough to leave her be. Instead, she took the sponge and started to helping her. Though by now, the sponge was so soaked in blood, it seemed to do more spreading than actual cleaning. Still, she managed to loosen the dried areas up for Lucy to go over with the mop. The two worked well together.

Clay said nothing, seeing no purpose in it if no one could hear. He just sat in one of the chairs in the room and watched the two at work. Now that he had time alone with his thoughts, he found he had surprisingly few to go over. Most of his thoughts wouldn't matter anymore. Thoughts of being an ancestor himself one day, or thoughts of the end of the world. He found the idea of becoming a father now laughable, and he had already done everything he could about the end of the world. It was in his AI's hands, now. He hoped the guy was ready for it, he had a lot to do. Clay snickered to himself at the notion that, in a way, he _was_ a father to his AI.

Michelle tried to start conversations several times, but Lucy would say nothing, or answer questions as shortly as possible without being rude. She would ask about movies, tell Lucy about an article in a magazine, anything to try to get her to talk. She avoided mentioning Clay, though he did come up once. When he heard himself mentioned as "Subject Sixteen", Clay had leaned forward, curious what Lucy would say. How she would react. But Lucy just agreed that it had been hard, and said no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep, Clay had decided, was the enemy. It wasn't new to him to wake up confused, but waking up believing he was alive was just too cruel. Even by his standards. Before it had happened, he knew he needed sleep. He took as much as he could get- and didn't care about the inevitable confusion in the morning. If anyone could tell you about exhaustion, it was him. But then, he would usually have been to exhausted to tell you about it. He didn't know if he would need sleep anymore, and decided to go without for as long as possible. Letting himself believe he was alive again... it was just too much.

Lucy had mopped in moderate silence for hours, Michelle occassionally leaving to change the water in their bucket or get Lucy more water. Michelle talked constantly, but Lucy didn't seem to mind. Maybe she just liked having someone with her. Clay heard her too, of course, but didn't really listen. He tried to read Lucy's face, and figure out what was on her mind. Whatever thoughts she had were locked up tighter than Alcatraz, though, and Clay couldn't get a read on her. He could tell she was upset, but little else.

They worked well together, never getting in each other's way. The walls were all clear, and most of the floors had been cleaned as well. The remaining symbols were watery and came off easily with a quick sweep of Lucy's mop. Much to Michelle's delight, they were finished shortly after the sun had risen. And much to Clay's, he didn't feel tired. Even Lucy let a smile out when she stood upright and looked over the room. Both women had blood on their hands and forearms, as well as some on their clothing, hair, and faces, where their hands had touched. Considering the state it was in initially, however, they were surprisingly clean.

He hated being so idile, he was used to keeping himself busy. Even as a child he would be out helping his father paint the porch, or build a bird house. He had been alone to think for too long. Just sitting here, waiting. He supposed he could try to learn more about the Templars, or something. But it seemed a mute point now. What could he find that he didn't already know? Who would he tell? Even if he could leave this place, he didn't know where to find Bill or Rebecca, and he didn't know many other Assassins. On the off-chance he could find them, they wouldn't be able to hear him.

It was very crippling. He couldn't do anything. No matter what he heard or saw, he couldn't stop it or tell anyone. He could only watch events unfold in front of him.

Clay was still sitting casually in the same chair when the two picked up their things and turned to leave, wondering if they'd have time to shower before they started work. Lucy turned to Clay's room for a moment and hesitated.

"Hey, 'Chelle, thanks for staying up and helping me. I never could have finished all that alone. Really appreciate it. But, uh, listen. I'll catch you in a few, okay? I have to get somethings from his room. Get it ready, you know." Her voice was strong and clear. But Clay knew her well enough to know she wasn't alright, her smile was weary and staged. Michelle opened her mouth to protest, but the look in Lucy's eyes stopped her. She stood there a moment, not sure if she should talk. Her mouth opened and closed again, making her look a little like a confused guppy. Eventually, she nodded.

"Alright. If you need anything. Anything at all." And with that, she took the mop, bucket, and sponge out with her. Lucy waited a moment before going to Clay's room. He, of course, followed her there.

She checked under his pillow and mattress before retrieving clean sheets from the closet and replacing the bloody ones. Once the bed was made, she began to rummage through the drawers in his nightstand. All three were empty. Clay knew what she was looking for, though. And she would never find it, not without his help. Of course he wanted her to find them, they were hers, really.

"Luce, the mirror is loose. Take it down, there's a crack in the wall behind it." He said it mostly to himself, not expecting her to hear. But then something crazy happened. Crazy by his standards. She got a confused expression, and curiously walked to the bathroom. She went straight to the mirror and pulled on the edges. Could it be a coincidence? Clay didn't know. "Try pulling it upwards." But she just kept tugging at it, before sighing and resting her hands on the sink. She shook her head and looked up at her reflection.

"You're loosing it." The image was disturbingly familiar to Clay, only with Lucy in his place. She fixed her hair and splashed her face, and left the room. As usual, Clay was on her heels. She stopped to pick up a few things from her work area. Her pen, an empty glass, and a clipboard. Her pen... Christ, she didn't know that's what he had used? He felt a little sick when she held it in her teeth to collect her papers. Lucy waved the pen in front of the door and it opened, a green light on the keypad inviting her through. But Clay wasn't just going to wait for her to come back again.

If he could only watch, he would watch where he saw fit. Right now, he saw it fit to keep with Lucy. He slipped out the door beside her. The guards were gone, with nothing left in the room to watch over. But he still checked over his shoulder wearily every few steps. He had been caught out here one too many times to forget. Lucy's pace was difficult to keep, as always. She didn't look up from her clipboard, miraculasly making every turn and stop without crashing into anyone.

The number of people in the hallways was shocking to Clay. Everyone had somewhere to be, something to do and someone to meet. He had only been out here late at night or during alerts, so he supposed it made sense there was no one in the halls then. The croud made him a little uneasy, and though he did his best to keep Lucy in sight, he lost her twice before she stopped at a door. He almost walked right into her she stopped so suddenly. She must know this place better than her own house.

She didn't linger, though. She dropped a few papers off through a slit in the door and resumed her brisk pace. Clay was completely lost by the time she stopped again at an elevator. Clay barely slipped in behind her before the door shut. He glanced over at the buttons, half expecting to be on floor 16. He scoffed at the actual number, 4. Square root of 16. Everything seemed to somehow add up to 16 in his life, now. Some joke by fate.

Lucy pressed the button for the main floor. There were two others in the elevator, also going to the main floor. Clay didn't recognise them. A man and a woman, both in labcoats. One busying herself with notes, the other checking over her math. Lucy just nodded at them and gave a polite smile. He suspected she didn't know them well, either.

Clay followed closely behind her when she left. 


	5. Chapter 5

At Lucy's hurried pace, the two were a block away from Abstergo before long. She only looked up from her clipboard a few times, impressing Clay with her familiarity of the area. Every mailbox and crack in the pavement was avoided without even needing to see it. And Clay surprised himself, at how well he could keep up with her. It had been too long since he had felt so... alive. Of course, the idiotic irony of it didn't get past him.

After another block and a half or so, Lucy's pace slowed and she lifted her eyes more frequently. A less familiar area, he had to assume. But something about her had shifted. Her shoulders had loosened, and she took on a different demeanor. She stopped flipping the blank pages of her clipboard and held it in one hand at her side. Though she kept her eyes down. She seemed less busy, and more grim.

It was only half a block before Clay found out why. She lifted her blue eyes at last, locking on the building on the corner ahead.

Though he didn't recognize it, he knew what it was. He looked over to Lucy, who kept her face stone and unreadable. She kept her composure when she opened the doors and climbed the stairs, never once so much as missing a step. As always, Clay followed her closely. Every movement was purposeful, though the speed had noteably dropped in her step. A man in a suit opened another door for her, offering quiet condolences. She nodded and thanked him as she passed through, into a room not unlike a church cathedral. A few flowers tried to decorate the room, but seemed more obligatory than anything. And there it was. There _he_ was. A box in the front of the room, too small to fit a child- and yet- it held a man. Clay found the sight more disturbing than anything else. Lucy took a seat in one of the pews, the first to arrive. Clay opted to stand, not wanting to find out what would happen if someone tried to sit through him. A handful of people filed in, taking seats apart from one another. Everyone sat alone.

The organist began playing "_Amazing Grace_", a classic funeral song. A song Clay hated, of course. But he supposed no one would have known that. No one had asked. A lady that Clay didn't know took her spot on the side, beside his box, and smiled at her audience of three. Four, if you counted the dearly departed. And she picked up the vocal line, smiling between words. Smiling as though she'd never been happier to preform to fewer people than you could count on one hand. Disgusting.

After the song, a man in minister's robes took her place. Clay grimaced. If not for his own name at the front, he could have sworn he was in the wrong place. Didn't anyone know he wasn't religious? Sure, he had been _raised_ Catholic, but he hadn't practiced the religion since leaving home. Meeting Juno had finalized his belief, if a year in Abstergo hadn't been enough. The Minister flipped a page in a binder before reciting;

_"The One remains, the many change and pass;  
__Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;  
__Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,  
__Stains the white radiance of Eternity,  
__Until Death tramples it to fragments. Die,  
__If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek.  
__Follow where all is fled. Rome's azure sky,  
__Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak.  
__The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak."_

Clay rolled his eyes. Where had he dragged that horseshit from? It didn't even make sense. Though he supposed he was glad it was in English, at least. Somebody had traded enough words with him to know that much. The minister continued, but Clay had tuned him out and redirected his attention to the audience members.

The room was fairly small, likely meant to only house thirty people or so. Still, it seemed huge with only three seats filled. There was Lucy, of course. Directly behind her was a familiar face, albiet aged since they last talked.

"..._Dad?_"

The man didn't react, of course. But Clay didn't have to ask to know it was him. He couldn't forget him, if he tried. And, admittedly, he had tried. Almost succeeded, too. But in his own reflection he could see his father's face. It was impossible to completely erase his memory.

Harold Kaczmarek. In the flesh. It had been so long since Clay had seen his face. Sure, phonecalls and e-mails here and there, but they hadn't shared photographs or met up in person in years. Clay caught himself wondering if he had yet recieved that last e-mail.

His attention drifted to the last member. The man sitting in the back of the room, in the corner. Clay would have overlooked him if he hadn't seen him walk in. Though, given his line of work, it came as no surprise. William Miles himself. And though he had an intimidating air about him that demanded respect- he was more comfortable around the Mentor than he was his own father. Not to say Bill had been more of a father to him, just that he had been a better friend. Bill was there when Clay was at his lowest. Bill himself had overseen Clay's first Leap of Faith, and given him a small, but approving, smile when he had landed safely.

Not just metaphorically speaking- the Assassins were all taught basic combat and freerun skills. Though they were mostly a formality and test of loyalty in modern times. Naturally, they couldn't trust their secrets to someone who couldn't defend themselves. Clay had heard from the grapevine that Bill had a son, but Bill never once mentioned him to Clay. He thought back to the name Juno had mentioned. Desmond Miles. He wondered if there was a relation, but doubted he'd ever know for sure. Maybe his AI would find out, when it saw Desmond.

Clay kept his attention on the three people who had come. Checking for tears, for quivering lips. Anything to validate that he would be missed. He didn't expect Bill to show any emotion- he seldom did. But his own father, and Lucy...

Nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

No one bit their lip or rubbed their eyes. Not once. The complete lack of sadness tore at Clay. He told himself if he wasn't buried in Italy, and was someplace closer to home, more people would have come. But he knew on some level that it was probably a lie. He had no siblings, his mother had left. No extended family that he knew of. His co-workers from the accelerator had long since lost touch, even then, he wasn't close to most of them. He had always been something of a loner, but no one expects a funeral this... desolate. What of his Assassin brothers? He dismissed the idea quickly, though. His team had consisted of three members. Himself and Lucy were both present, of course. He hoped a trained member like Rebecca knew better than to come out in the open like this. Though he counted her as a friend, he knew she had to keep hidden above all else.

Still, the lack of emotion ate at him. He was dead, and no one seemed to be losing sleep over it. Dead. Not on vacation for the weekend, or out the the store. He was never coming back. His father would never see his boy again. Clay found himself the only one with any humanity. The only one choked up, and not even for the right reason at a funeral. He wanted to be missed. Everyone wants to be missed. To know they've left a mark, that they've touched the people around them somehow. Clay _knew_ he had, and yet... where was his proof? Who would be his witness?

His eyes fell to the small cremation box in the front of the room. To think, all he once was, was in a little box no longer than his forearm. Though, his forearm was in it too. He took in some air to sigh with, finding the breath to be surprisingly difficult. It made sense, he supposed, that a dead man would have a tough time breathing.

Was this it, the end? Sure, thirty wasn't a _full_ life, per se, but it was his _entire_ life. Every memory he's ever made, every step he took and every word he said, is remembered like this? In a small church just outside Rome, with a song he hated sung by a woman he'd never met? He still didn't want to die, he never wanted to die. He just wanted out, he was desperate, and alone. The only comfort was in hollow words from a traitor, the only council was a Goddess telling him to kill himself. He had no choice, no freewill. Isn't that exactly what the Assassins fought for? Freewill? Right to life, freedom, and choices? There was so much he still didn't understand. So much he still hadn't seen. He had been given an ultimatum- die on Juno's terms, or die on Abstergo's.

Juno had told him to help Desmond Miles. She had shown him what he would do, and he had rejected it. Why wouldn't he? The picture she painted for him left his skin crawling. And yet, he accepted in the end. After everything he had seen, everything he experienced. Through someone else's eyes or not- he had felt everything from guillotines to bullet wounds. What choice did he have, but to accept? His body wouldn't be able to withstand Abstergo's search for much longer, though they would try regardless. And his mind had all but left him. Abstergo had drained him of his soul- all that was left was for him to drain it's vessel.

His thoughts were interrupted when the lady started to sing another song. An unfamiliar one to Clay, though he suspected it was a hymn. Harold and Lucy stood once she had finished, and turned to leave. They didn't regard one another, and, he supposed, they had no reason to. They hadn't been introduced by him, and he didn't know how else they would meet. Harold stopped briefly to thank the minister and shake his hand, but didn't linger. Clay wondered to himself who had payed for this ceremony. It wasn't much, and the box was painfully simple and wooden. Save for a small metal plaque with his name on it, it was little more than a large breadbox.

Everything he once was, fit into a glorified breadbox. What a humbling thought, that was. He had become nothing more than fertilizer- worm food- in a little wooden box.

Bill must have slipped out earlier, his seat was vacant before the song had even began.

Clay tailed Lucy, realizing he was making a habit of it. Ah, well. If it bothered her, she could call the Ghostbusters. Lucy left the building and turned the direction opposite whence they came, to an isolated grassy hill. She sat under a tree near the top and sighed, leaning against it. Clay made himself comfortable beside her and leaned back on his elbows. The view here was impressive, he had to admit. The angle of the hill gave them a breathtaking view of the city.

There was a lot to look at, really. Clay was soaking in the details when he heard a soft noise nearby, something like a whimper of a small dog. He turned to see what it was, and saw Lucy had covered her face with her hands. Still, she stifled it back, but muffled sobs betrayed her. Why did she hold it back? She finally had the solitude to let herself cry- but she fought it down. Clay moved up close to her and tried to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. As expected, there was no reaction to the touch. Though she felt solid and warm under his hand- as she always had- he must have felt cool and airy. Negligible to the slight breeze. Though he wouldn't ask for her to be unhappy, he still caught himself with a little smile at her tears. At least _someone_ would miss him.

He sat there a while, just sitting with her. They were finally outside, and together. He didn't want to leave. Didn't want her to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

The dead define eternity. And though he had all the time to the end of the world now- and maybe beyond that- he wished he could stop time. Drag out his eternity in this moment, here with Lucy. Here on this hillside, he and Lucy had escaped the Assassins and the Templars. There were no obligations, no danger.

Though the sun was cold on his skin and he couldn't feel the breeze, it didn't matter. Knowing they were there was more than enough for him. He and Lucy didn't need a conversation. They had always been comfortable in silence, and this one felt no different.

They could both pretend he was alive.

But perfection is never permanent. As much as Clay fought it, he knew Lucy had to go back. She knew she had to go back. With a final sigh, she pulled herself upright and started down the hillside. Clay had no choice but to follow. He hated this fate. He had become nothing more than a tag-along. An invisable one that can't even make commentary.

But then... Why couldn't he? No one would hear him, sure, but in his final year he had plenty of speaking without being heard. Why would death stop him?

"Luce."

She didn't react, of course. He hadn't expected her to. But that was irrelevant. He was going to speak regardless of who would hear.

"Luce, thanks. Thanks for coming. Y'know. Here. I had no idea the guest of honour got to watch."

She kept walking, unphased by him at her side. By now she had regained herself completely, it would take a very careful eye from someone who knew her well to tell she had been crying moments earlier. She had buried herself so deep, even Clay wouldn't have known. Amazing.

"Well, since we have a moment. There are some things I've been meaning to get off my chest." He said it wearily, half expecting an argument to come from this. He dismissed the notion quickly though. She couldn't even hear him. How could she argue?

Not even a blink.

"No no, let me finish. You're with them, I get it. We've gone over that. Several times. They promise an end to war and all that jazz." Again he expected Lucy to pipe up and defend Abstergo. He shook his head. "Where Team Clay votes for freewill, Team Lucy votes for protection." Of course he knew where this mentality came from. She needed a foundation. They both did. Lucy had been left alone at Abstergo for too long. Too long with nothing to lean on. Too long with no one to fight for. She was alone. Left surrounded by Templars, it was only a matter of time before she made friends. Before she forgot her Assassin brothers.

And she did. She made friends. No one could vouch for Vidic's character, he was a monster, but he offered unwavering peace and protection for humanity. With them she had security. Clay kept her pace, not sure if he wanted her to reply.

"You needed to know you'd be okay. And they told you you would be. It makes sense, it really does. I did the same thing to you. When you promised me I'd be okay. It's easy to latch onto something like that, I guess. Too easy. I just don't understand how you could trade my life for it." Clay was, at this point, speaking more to himself than he was to Lucy. Speaking to know he still had a voice to speak with. Though he clearly heard his own voice, it was silent.

Silent to everyone that mattered.

Lucy opened the glass doors to Abstergo, and followed her earlier path back to the elevator.

"You can't pretend you didn't know I would die here. Remember when I passed out mid-session, and instead of giving me medical attention you kept me in there? That was a bad one. Oh, but there was that time I was in a coma for three days. That was worse. I was awake for an hour before being put back in. Didn't even get anything to eat. You can't have asked me to believe you when you told me I'd be okay. You knew I was going to die. It's incredible I lasted as long as I did. A miracle, really. Some act of God. Juno, I suppose." Clay kept at her side as they entered the elevator. She hit the button marked 'Four'. No one joined them in the elevator this time, though Lucy still checked her clipboard an unnessisary amount. Clay traced the scars on his arms with his fingers. He wondered if his face had scars, too. He was sure he had cut it at least once. When he got back to his room he would be sure to consult a mirror.

"After everything... I suppose I'm glad Juno came. If she hadn't, I don't know how long it would have taken me to kill myself. Maybe I wouldn't have. Juno showed me everything, looking back. Knowledge I didn't know I had. There were symbols, I didn't realize I used her symbols in my glyphs. I didn't realize, when she showed me, that it was the future. The red ink wasn't ink at all. Obvious, looking back. So many things are obvious now." Clay resisted a sigh, remembering the discomfort at trying to earlier. In the more crouded hallways, Clay opted to walk behind Lucy rather than beside her. He still had no interest in having someone walk through him. Lucy had resumed her brisk pace, and returned to Clay's room. He wondered what business she still had here. She closed the door behind her and stood a few steps away from the door, looking around.

"Clay..?" She said the name barely audibly, more like a breath than a word. Clay's ears pricked at the sound. His eyes widened and he positioned himself in front of her.

"Yes! I'm here. Do you hear me?" He was saying the words without thinking. If she could hear him, it would change everything. He wouldn't have to be so alone. Still, her eyes passed him without seeing.

"I think... I think I'm going crazy. I felt like you were there, today. At the funeral." She spoke quietly, probably doubting he could hear.

"I was, Luce. I was there."

"Of course you weren't. I know. I just..." She paused to sigh, her brow knit with sadness and concern. "I just miss you. I didn't think I would. I didn't think I would miss you. Does that make me a terrible person?" She laughed a little, at her own expense.

"No, don't be like that. It's alright. I'm alright. Well, I've been better, but..." He paused a moment, looking for the words. "It's incredible, Luce. The only voice I hear in my head is my own."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too." He said it honestly, though he meant it just for comfort. Strange, he never thought he would be the one to console her. It had always been the other way around. She shook her head and huffed. Clay thought she might be leaving, but instead she walked back to the bathroom mirror. She rested a hand on either side and gave it a firm tug, upwards. Like magic, it popped up. Less than two centimeters, but just enough to reveal an imperfection in the tiling. Lucy ran her hand over the sides, failing to notice the crack. "It's there, Luce. They're right there." As always, she ignored him. With a frustrated expression and a quick slamming motion, the mirror fell back into place.

"I'm going crazier than he did..." Lucy fumed away from the bathroom, leaving her clipboard and pen in the room with him.

"Hey, insensitive!" He called after her. Naturally he was joking, but it was a little hurtful. He wasn't crazy, was he? Sure, some of his marbles had gone missing, but he could have found them. His mind wasn't lost, just... misplaced. She kept walking, locking the door behind her out of habit. Clay was alone again, in his room.

"Yeah. Good talk," he muttered. 


	8. Chapter 8

Alone again in his room. It had only been a week or so since he had been in the same situation, only with a pulse. Though he didn't miss it when it was gone. After standing there a moment, he took himself over to look in the mirror and check for scars on his face.

Nothing.

Not to say, there were no scars. There was no reflection. He twisted his face into a scowl and left the bathroom. He flopped back onto his bed, wondering if he could open the door in his current state. Hell, can't ghosts walk through doors? Was it worth trying?

What would be the consequence? Surely he'd just hit a solid object, as if nothing had changed. He sat upright and, feeling rediculus, tried to reach his hand through his headboard.

Tap.

Of course it was solid. It was foolish to think otherwise. He laid back down and reconsidered sleeping. By now he was accustomed to waking up confused, and the feeling of a good night's sleep was tempting. For that matter, he had nothing to do in the meantime. At least until Lucy got back, he was trapped in this room again.

But remembering when he thought he was alive earlier made him think it over. It was cruel to think people would react to him, that he would be seen and that he could breathe. He knit his brow and rubbed at his face, trying to decide. Maybe it wouldn't happen again. If only he could leave a note or something to remind himself when he woke up... Lucy had left her pen and clipboard, and it suddenly occured to him that he could leave a note- not for himself- but for her.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood upright. If he had any, the blood would have rushed from his head at the suddenness. The pen was right there, on his nightstand. Paper with useless markings and little doodles, paper Lucy hadn't let out of her hand all day. Surely she would see anything he left, any sort of mark.

With resolve written on his face, he reached to it, holding the breath he didn't have.

And he held it. The smile on his face was wider than he could ever remember. In a second he had the cap off and was ready to write.

But what to say? Clay wasn't one to be lost for words by any means, but this was different. How do you tell someone you're dead, but okay? Regardless of what he wrote, she would have an even harder time letting go if she knew he was still here. Is that what he wanted?

Of course it was. Being alone like this was intolerable. Able to see and hear people he knew, but unable to be heard or seen. _Anything_ was better than nothing. Still holding the pen just above the page, he racked his brain for words. Not a single one came to mind. Maybe a simple, "I'm here"? No, too ambiguous. She wouldn't know who. It had to be something she knew he had written, and wasn't a prank by a particularily nasty coworker. Something too simple could be mistaken for one of her own doodles.

For the longest time he stood there, unsure of what to say. Something like this wouldn't be easy for her to read. The sound of the pen tapping the clipboard was unreasonably loud in the quiet of his room. But in a good way. Knowing he had made a sound that others could hear- if they were around- was a great feeling. Through the pen he'd gotten his voice back.

The words came to him. He scratched them out before the idea was fully formed in his head.

_"BEHIND THE MIRROR IS A CRACK. -C"_

The effort of writing was surprisingly tiring. By the time he'd signed with a _"C"_, his arm was heavy and weak. Again, he supposed it made sense. Being able to hold the pen _at all_ is what didn't.

He fell back to his bed, the sheets not reacting to the weight. The tiredness came without warning, and he felt completely spent. It was as if he had just had a fourteen-hour session with no breaks.

No, _sixteen_ hours.

Sudden fatigue made sleep seem like a better idea, and the promised confusion would be worth it. The pillows had never felt softer.

Clay slept.

When he awoke, he had no idea what time it was. Yet, he was sure it was August 2012 and he was positive his name was Clay. Knowing those things usually meant a good day was ahead. He stretched out and lay there for a while, content in his bed. It was nice to wake up and not see Lucy or Vidic, more than eager to put him in the Animus for another session. Though the bed was comfortable, he was not one for idle time. He sat upright and stretched his arms out, wondering what he could do until his door was unlocked.

Without knowing why, he glaned over to his nightstand. As always it was empty, but that seemed wrong somehow. Something was supposed to be there...

He checked behind him, noticing the door was open. Unusual. Peering through the door he saw nothing else abnormal- the other doors were all shut and the red light over the control pads told him they were locked. But someone must have opened his door. He looked around, not sure what he expected to find.

Nothing. Confused, he headed to his washroom to have some water. The mirror had been lifted and Lucy stood there, back to him, staring at something in her hand. Clay instinctively checked the small crack under the mirror. It had been pulled back, and it's contents were gone.

Lucy just stood there, seeming unaware of his presence. Her clipboard lay on the floor, covered in doodles and chicken scratch. One particular message stood out, written in capital letters overtop of a particularily happy seahorse. It wasn't her hand. Clay looked at it closer and tried to read it without letting Lucy know what he was doing.

He immedietely realized what it was. Memory came back to him, unpleasantly familiar memory of his suicide and of following Lucy to his funeral. Memory of the pathetic gathering and distasteful choice of songs. And a pleasant memory, too. The hillside where Lucy had finally validated that he was missed. He smiled ruefully and turned his attention back to Lucy. She was still lost in the recovered item, as if she hadn't seen it in years. Clay moved in front of her and tried to read her face, confident she wouldn't see him.

Even with no one around she still kept her mask on. She was expressionless as she stared unbroken into her hand, but the faint redness and glassiness of her eyes gave her away. Her lip was strong and she kept the tears back, but to Clay she may as well have been sobbing. He wished he could comfort her. Tell her she would be okay. She needed someone to tell her she would be okay. She wouldn't believe it, but she needed to hear it. Seeing her like this was torture.

"You'll be okay. I'm alright, I want you to be too."

She looked up with a start, scanning the room. Surprise and confusion was written on her face. Her fist closed and her posture straightened, as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn't. Slowly her expression faded into doubt and uncertainty.

"Is someone there?" She asked hesitantly, as if she was afraid of the answer.


	9. Chapter 9

"Yes, yes I am here! It's me!" Before having thought of the words they had left him. Did Lucy hear him? Was it cruel to let himself believe she had? Again, her eyes passed him without seeing. He waited for her to answer. She checked over her shoulder a few times and shook her head before turning on her heels to leave. No... Please come back...

But she wouldn't. What reason did she have? She picked up her clipboard and snapped the mirror back into place. On her way out, Clay followed. There was no point hiding his expression. She wouldn't see it anyway. Just as she closed the door to his room, she was interrupted by a chiming noise. At first Clay didn't know what it was, but she instinctively flipped her cell phone from her pocket and glanced down at the screen. Clay didn't see the name, but she cleared her throat and answered.

"Hey," her casual tone suggested it was a friend. Clay strained to hear the other half of the conversation, but couldn't catch any words. "Yeah. No, I'm alright. No. I found it. His room. Yeah. I know. I'm okay. Really, I'm okay." Her sudden stops implied she was being interrupted on the other end. Whoever it was must be concerned. "I know. Thanks. What was the name? No, not yet. In a few days. No, it's the twentieth today. A week after his funeral." Without realizing it he leaned closer, knowing the conversation was about him. Did he really sleep for that long? Just now, he must have been gone for a week. He started to build a time line from her conversation.

"Yeah, the Tiber, I know. Four days before they found him. I know. The ceremony was okay. He was cremated when they recovered it, I think he had wanted to be buried though." His body was thrown into the Tiber River? The thought nauseated him. No wonder he had been cremated after that. Four days underwater... The mental image was too much. Lucy paused a moment, listening. With her free hand she shuffled around the papers on her clipboard. "No, not yet. It'll be ready. No... Who told you that?" She didn't sound annoyed, just surprised. Expecting the conversation to last a while, Clay took a seat near the Animus. It couldn't hurt him anymore, but it still creeped him out. The dull lights continued to move up and down it, despite it being offline. It was like it had a pulse.

"Not really. It took a while, and my shirt was ruined. I tried using that spot cleaner you got me. No, not on blood stains." Was she talking about his blood? "What? I thought you weren't doing those anymore. Oh. I guess. Yeah, that makes sense. No, no it's fine." She pinched the phone with her shoulder to free her other hand and started up her computer. "I'm checking. Hold on, it has to log me in first." Silence. Clay waited, making himself comfortable in the chair. It could be quite a nice seat when it wasn't accompanied by threats, he realized. "Nope. Just give me a second." She tapped in her password and pulled up some screens. Clay leaned forward to read it. Nonsense to him, but he took as much of it to memory as he could. "Yeah, Doctor Sung had to change her number. What? No. Ask her yourself. No. I'm not just going to _give_ it to you!" Her tone was joking again, drawing out a thin smile from Clay. It was good to see her happy. "What, and rob you of the chance to ask? Never." She signed out of the computer and headed to the door, Clay at her heels as always.

"No way. Nope. Not happening. I don't care how many cherries you put on top! Yeah, I'd rather watch you ask her again. Maybe that's why she changed it in the first place." Clay kept behind her in the hall, quietly listening. Who was she talking to? "Alright. Good luck with that. Yeah? Oh, me too. I'll talk to you soon. Thanks, Daniel. Bye." She clicked it shut and returned the phone to her pocket. The name clicked in Clay's mind and he caught himself smiling again. Daniel _Cross?_ It had been ages since he had heard from him. Last time must have been more than three months ago, he had come to Clay's room with a pack of cigarettes after a particularly rough session. Somehow, Clay got the feeling Daniel knew what it was like. Through the bleed effect Daniel had patiently waited it out before returning to the conversation. And he never talked down to him after. They had finished off the entire box that night, and Daniel had promised to split another one some other day. When he had left, Clay had to wonder if anyone knew he had stopped by, or even if it was allowed. Clay didn't think he was a Templar agent, anyway. He seemed too good for that. Maybe he was a doctor or something.

Clay's thoughts were interrupted when Lucy stopped at the end of the hall. All the way at the end here, there wasn't much traffic. A nice window above an end table and single chair. What was this for? Just decorative? Lucy flipped back her page of doodles and a few other blank pages before stopping at a form. She clicked the pen a couple times, skimming over the filled out areas. Again, mostly nonsense to Clay. Looked like a medical chart, but it was incomplete. Seeing Lucy with that pen was a little disturbing, truth be told. How could she even _hold_ it, having seen it covered in blood just a few weeks ago? The form she was skimming had less than half of the blanks filled in, but it seemed to make sense to her anyway. She crossed out a couple of check boxes and wrote a_ "17"_ at the top. Seventeen what? Clay didn't have to think for long to know. Subject Seventeen was already being located, barely two weeks after his death.

It would be sickening if he had anything left to make feel sick.


	10. Chapter 10

They were after Subject Seventeen. His body was barely mopped up, and they were after his replacement. Clay wasn't surprised, just disgusted. He knew Sixteen was just the number before Seventeen. Seventeen was always the important subject. This must be the Desmond Miles that Juno had mentioned, the person he had killed himself for. To be honest with himself, _Desmond Miles_ was more of a title than a person. An icon, a symbol... A reason. Not a person. Never a person. And yet, here they were, setting up his old room for it's next resident. From bits of conversations, Clay picked up that he was a bartender. An unexpected occupation for someone so important. Desmond Miles. The Bartender. Well, Jesus was a carpenter.

A week passed and Clay avoided sleep the entire time. He didn't want to risk missing Desmond's arrival. Remembering the fatigue from moving the pen earlier meant he avoided that, as well. Anything to keep his ghosty self awake. Usually, he kept near Lucy. When she was alone he would talk to her, but she never answered. He didn't know if she could hear him or not. It didn't matter, he was accustomed to speaking without being heard. Even to her. When she went home for the night, he stayed. Every evening she repeated the same motions. Set down her pen. Shred a few papers. Log out of her computer. Shut it down. Look for her pen. Find it. Put it in her drawer. Turn off the light, check behind her, and leave. Clay would sit in the same chair every time she did. Without needing to look up he would say at a predictable time, "pen is on the desk".

The routine was reassuring at first, but by the end of the week Clay was bored of it. At night he would wait for Lucy, and by day he would follow her around and keep tabs on what was going on at Abstergo. It might be more efficient if he explored the place without her, but something kept him at her side. He simply didn't want to leave her. Her routine might be boring, but sometimes boring was good. At least he wasn't in the Animus, he would tell himself. Never again. Now, he would_ always_ be Clay Kaczmarek, and never have to doubt it again.

Occasionally, Lucy would get phone calls from Daniel. Clay noticed that he always phoned her, not the other way around. There was probably a reason, but he couldn't guess it. Twice that week he had called her. Checking up on her, mostly. It seemed like he was far away, from what Clay understood of the conversation, and Lucy seemed to miss him. Strange she hadn't mentioned him much while Clay was alive. They must be close. Long-term friends? Knowing Lucy's history, Clay doubted he was a childhood friend, but she spoke to him like they had known each other all their lives. More things Clay didn't know about her. What future could they possibly have had? She kept everything a secret. Even her friends. And he thought_ he_ was the one with trust issues.

With every passing day Lucy seemed to improve. Her disposition lightened and she was more herself, even if that didn't mean particularly light. No one would deny she was a workaholic, but she started smiling again and giving more lengthy answers to people. Her conversations were less one-sided. Clay would never say he didn't want her to recover from his death, but she did seem to do so faster than expected. Maybe that was just him. Everyone else was glad to see her recovering.

Regardless, with every day they were closer to catching Desmond Miles. Clay couldn't help but build him up in his mind a little. After all, this was the man he had sacrificed _everything_ to help. The meticulous glyphs, all those audio recordings, and, of course, his own AI. All to help out this man. Juno's Chosen One. Could anyone live up to those expectations? Well, Desmond Miles would have to. He was meant to save the world. Clay didn't know the details, and wouldn't claim to, but he knew enough. Clay's entire purpose in life was to die and leave directions for Desmond. How many people had that fate? How many people's purpose was to point his man along the way? How many had to die? Clay suspected it would only be himself that died, but the point remained. This man was more of an icon than a human being. He had a lot to live up to. And a lot of people that would be disappointed if he was anything less than super human.

Lucy kept herself busy. Clay suspected he was the only one that knew she was idle all week. After all, her expertise was operating the Animus and taking care of the patient. No patient meant no Animus to operate. She did odd jobs- getting lunch or coffee for everyone, helping deliver paperwork or finish a form. If anyone could make work for herself, it was Lucy. When she got a moment, she would never be just relaxing. In her spare moments she checked messages and wrote pointless memos to herself, or labelled things that didn't need labelling.

The doctors that had worked with Clay occupied themselves with other people operating Animi. He had heard rumours about training people with the Animus, but didn't really believe it until he saw the reports. Troubling knowledge. A few historians stopped by and dropped off reports on the Third Crusade, which, Clay had to assume, must have to do with Desmond. He didn't know _everything_ about him, but he did know they were both related to Ezio Auditore. Hopefully he would go through enough of Ezio's memories to find all of Clay's glyphs. He hadn't considered that Desmond would relive a different ancestor. Lucy processed the reports and made summaries and databases no one had asked her for. It was just her nature, Clay supposed. When there was no work to be done, she made it for herself.

The week was uneventful, all things considered. Lucy continued to brighten with every day. Though he felt guilty for it, he wished she wasn't quite so quick to recover. It was like nothing had happened. All of Abstergo had moved on and Lucy was right in tow. The focus was Desmond, and Clay knew he was just a stepping stone to get to him. But he didn't want to be forgotten.


End file.
